Brave Face
by sister dark
Summary: Dean tries to be brave, because it's what she wanted. Angsty!Dean Reviews are cherished and loved and snuggled at night


Brave Face

Dean could count the things that scared him on one hand.

There wasn't much that frightened him, not with what he knew and what he saw, what he felt, and what he was – what he thought he was, part monster and half human, half-living and fading fast, like a solstice, especially now, at this time of year.

But this, this scared him shitless, more than anything. Being alive, when the people he loved were dead and dying quietly.

He'd never wanted to be back here. Once was enough, and never again. He'd promised himself that as a boy, but he'd been breaking promises left and right recently – promises to Dad, promises to Sammy – He'd promised to protect him, promised to stay and be there, promised to protect him from losing the things he had, but he couldn't see it coming, and should have – Jess's death – and Sammy had taken it hard.

Took it hard like Dad, for all they swore up and down that neither on was like the other, Dean knew. He saw it now, saw it in the identical bottles and hunched backs, shoulders rolled forward and closed off like fortresses at opposite ends of the tiny hotel room – like towers of grief, filling the silence with the chains that linked them and marked him apart, marked him different, marked him _lacking_. Like he had never known their grief and would never know it – like it was simpler for him, alive and living in the face of death, not desperate and quiet and forsaken, dying like the dead they'd lost.

Of course not. Dean never complained. Never complained when the empty two-six of Jack Daniels broke on the floor by the hotel bed instead of making its way to the garbage – never complained. Not out loud.

So he'd left like he'd complained, silently. There was too little space in the rented room for them and their grief – let alone him. And he'd driven through the night, and the dawn, and the day again, until he came back here.

Lawrence, Kansas.

He turned the key and heard the engine die, and he felt hollow.

The trees looked bare and brittle, grey-purple in the dusky light. Tombstones stood at attention, row upon row of marble and grey, casualties lost to death.

Lost like Dad and Sam were losing, drowning in whiskey bottles and tears that filled them up inside. Sometimes, he thought, sometimes he'd rather be dead than immortal, sometimes he'd rather have bone-roots than be transient and forever like the ghosts he hunted.

The tombstone looked hard and cold, out in the open, shouldering other cold, hard tombstones, and it was nothing like she was in life, nothing like it – only the curving letters soft like he remembered she was.

Mary Winchester

Irreplaceable

He didn't need to look at the dates, didn't need to be reminded of when she died. He knew it well enough.

Dean Winchester wasn't afraid of a lot of things.

But he was afraid of this – He tried to be brave – she wanted him to be brave, and she knew that it was just pretend. He wasn't brave for never bringing flowers to his mother's grave. He wasn't brave for seeking Sam and dragging him out of his perfect life because he was afraid of being alone. He wasn't brave for not complaining. He wasn't brave for leaving the two people who needed him because his grief was suffocating him, and he couldn't breathe when everything smelled like alcohol and death and fire.

That wasn't bravery, and he wasn't brave. He feared the retribution. He feared retribution like he feared faith, feared it like fire, like it could melt him down and use him up, and he'd seen it too clearly to think anything different.

Seen his father burn with grief and rage and hate, slow and sure and turning to ash, using up everything around him and pushing everything away, like Sam.

And Sam, he'd left because he didn't understand, and he understood too well now. He was like a powder-keg, and his misery burst like an inferno, searing everything around him.

It was Dean though, that was branded. Deeper than the flesh, he knew the fire that struck the iron – it was in him and it would never leave. Sometimes he felt it, molten and mercurial and burning in his blood, and his hate.

He was consumed by it and he was it – that terrible coiling fiery _thing _– whenever he killed – burning up inside, making him raw and used and full, and only the thought of the people he saved, the children that could be children and not fire-branded or brave-faced, only that doused his soul. Only that made him human again.

The air was frigid, tickling the hair on the back of his neck. Dean cleared his throat.

In his hand he had a bouquet of daisies. She'd always liked when he picked them for her. He remembered that.

"Um…Hi mom." He breathed; his voice low and rough as he hesitantly set down the flowers. He stood there for a moment, hovering like he wanted to run, like he wanted to get away and never go back – like maybe, in another life, he might have had the chance.

But this was Dean, and he didn't run. He didn't know how.

He bent down, traced the inscription. Irreplaceable. He sat across for a long time, not saying anything. He wanted to make her proud, wanted to say all the right things, and let her know he'd done what he could, let her know he'd done his best – done his best not to be afraid.

"Hi," he murmured, choking up, the muscle in his jaw twitching and his lips pursing as he tried to hold it all in, all the things that he wanted to say and couldn't, all the sharp, hard things that cut him raw inside – that filled him up and spilled out with every dashed hope, every dream that he put away and tried not to think about.

And maybe, maybe she'd forgive him, for not being as brave as he pretended to be. Maybe she'd forgive him for wanting run – wanting to drive off and never come back, forgive him for burning up inside with a loneliness so deep and resounding it scared him. Maybe – maybe it was enough – maybe he was enough.

"I'm sorry mom," he whispered, staring at his empty hands. "I tried you know? I tried to be brave and to be strong and to keep it together, but…" he drew in a quick breath, and held himself so still and taut and impassive that the tear that threatened refused to fall, "but things – things are tough."

"I mean, I shouldn't complain. Its not like any of it matters – complaining can't change anything, but sometimes – sometimes I wonder…" his voice drifted off, and he didn't finish. Habit had taught him not to say it aloud.

He wondered where his dreams went, when life took over, and reality superimposed itself.

"I just – I wish you could have stayed a little longer. But you're not here. And uh, well I wish I could change that, because I just – I just feel kind of alone."

He drew in a shaking breath, and soldiered on.

"Its not like its bad – everyone has their burdens, right? I just wish it was different, you know? I wish… I wish I wasn't so scared all the time mom, because I can't do anything to save them – its not something I can hunt down and kill, its not anything I can do to change, and I'm just there, and I feel so…so useless. And it's…it's hard sometimes."

He was broken now, broken like a radio that wouldn't shut off, spilling out words to a slab of marble and a skeleton six feet under the earth.

"I'd take it from them if I could, but I can't, and I don't think they even know I'm there when they get like this, and I know that's selfish of me. I mean, I haven't lost the woman I loved, but I think maybe its worse, maybe its worse to see them both dying while they're living – and I wish – I wish you were here, because then I wouldn't have to do this all alone any more."

His vision swam and colors blurred together, and he put his palms to his eyes hard. He wouldn't cry. Grown men didn't cry.

He hadn't cried since he was six. He wasn't about to start now. He had to be brave. It was what she wanted, and that's what he'd do.

But fuck, was it ever hard.

And he trembled, stretched tight, fighting the tears and fighting himself, sitting a vigil in front of her.

He didn't hear the soft tread of soled feet behind him, didn't hear her bend down – his ears swimming with words, with memories and wishes he'd tried to lock away, tidy and clean in a little box that he should have never opened, but he did.

"Oh Chil', oh honey, your momma loved you with everything she had, not because you were strong, or good, but because you were her Son, you were her Dean, and that was all she ever wanted, tears and fears and all," Missouri told him, low and soothing, wrapping her arm around his rigid shoulders,

"That brave face honey? She don't need it."


End file.
